


the sea behind me

by phalangine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flint retires and owns a farm tucked away from society. Silver owns a ship and isn't quite ready to join him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sea behind me

**i.**

John wakes when Flint does.

"Don't go," he grumbles, grasping blindly for some part of Flint he can use to keep the man in bed. It doesn't work- Flint is too fast, too deft at dodging seeking hands. Not everyone reaching for Flint has had sleeping in for an extra hour on their mind.

He feels colder already, like a stranger waking up in someone else's bed.

As if he could sense John thinking, the bed dips by John's hip as Flint sits down beside him. "This is as much your bed as it is mine," he says softly, brushing the hair off John's face. "All right?"

John grunts, which earns him a sigh. If he were to look, he knows what he would see: Flint, rolling his eyes heavenward, lips quirked up anyway because he enjoys John's recalcitrance in the morning. So long as they haven't got anything to do.

"I've got to see to the animals, but I'll be back soon. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Silver turns onto his side, putting his back to Flint. "Go collect your damn eggs."

"Yes, dear," Flint sighs. Before he goes, he delivers a thwack to John's backside, just hard enough to sting. Then he rockets away, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

John calls after him, of course. Calls Flint every profanity he can think of. Suggests he find a goat to keep him warm at night, since he already smells like he does. Threatens to leave now if this is how he's going to be treated.

They both know he'd never do that, though. John never _wants_ to leave Treasure Island.

 

By the time Flint returns, John is in the kitchen making eggs.

"Are those my trousers?" is the first thing out of his mouth.

"Yep."

"I say you could wear them," is the second.

Happy to give into the impulse, John snaps the waistband and asks, "What you like me to take them off?"

For a moment, Flint just stares at him with wild eyes, and John suddenly remembers who this is. Why being playful and teasing with Flint is so important- and so difficult. Putting a bit of snap his tone, John gestures Flint over, "Come here."

It takes a moment, but Flint will always be a military man, despite his history with the Navy. He takes orders well, provided they're couched in a way that doesn't offend him. John getting bossy with him at home isn't offensive; it's the start of a game, a bit of fun. So Flint comes. Walks perfectly steadily across the room until there's barely a breath of space between them.

"You are an endless map of pitfalls disguised as treasure, you know that?"

Flint shrugs, impassive, so John flicks his ear.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"I don't like when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Leave."

The problem is, John was not the first to Flint's heart. He can't blame Thomas Hamilton for what happened to Flint- the man was even more a victim than Flint- but that doesn't mean he has to enjoy grappling with the ghosts of hooks the man left in Flint's heart. For someone as brutal as he is, Flint is still too soft by half. He never wanted to do harm. He never wanted to move against the man he called father.

Yet he did, because that tender heart of his demanded retribution- demanded change.

Lifting his hands to cup Flint's face, John sighs. He concentrates on the rasp of stubble against his palm, the way Flint closes his eyes and lets his face be stroked. "I cannot follow you into your head," he says quietly. "And I don't think I'd like it in there if I could."

Flint snorts.

"So, you see, I need you to be here with me. Not hiding in the past you keep locked away so you can hurt yourself when you start to feel happy again. I never wanted to be that to you, and you can't make me."

One day, John is going to find the man who turned Flint inside out like this. He is going to follow him, and he is going to steal whatever is most precious to him. Clearly that wasn't Flint.

He expects to be brushed off; contrary bastard that he is, Flint steps closer and leans in for a rare gentle kiss- the captain isn't so good gentle. Passionate and deep, yes. Angry, absolutely. But gentle and fun and _just saying hello_ all escape him.

"Someone's been practicing," John accuses when they pull apart.

Flint gives him a smile that's part shit-eating, part you're-a-shit. Then he's backing away, turning and taking his smelly- John hadn't noticed it earlier, but whew, does Flint reek of animal- body away. Before he disappears completely, he calls, "Only with the goats!"

"I don't know why I like him," Silver says to himself. "I really, truly don't."

 

They're back in bed that night, both exhausted from running around and working all day, when Flint asks, "When do you leave?"

John would like to lie, but he doesn't. "Tomorrow."

Flint sighs and turns over, and that's the end of that. No fighting. No bargaining. Just Flint taking what he gets, the scourge of Nassau taking yet another beating.

Sometimes, John wishes someone had taught Flint how to fight with more than his fists.

 

**ii.**

When they first met, Flint seemed like a figment of another world. He walked through battlefields and emerged battered but unbeaten. Over and over again, he would rise, and he would fight on, and he would lead his scraps of men to impossible victories.

Now, he cuts a figure less demonic than ghostly. He haunts his little farm tucked away on its little island like a revenant waiting to be put to rest. The flash of his teeth, bared with rage, is gone. His bloodied knuckles only bleed now when the weather gets cold and the skin splits.

John perhaps ought to dislike this new Flint. He is not the man Long John Silver is meant to match; he is none of the versions of Flint who drew John Silver in and forged him into his legend.

Instead, he finds he likes the quiet man who sneezes when he gets goat hair up his nose and spends his extra time grumbling to himself about temperamental chickens. He suspects this is the shade of McGraw, Flint's gentler predecessor. The man who ought to have been.

That isn't to say all of Flint has evaporated. John is still "little shit", and Flint still goes quiet like he used to when they reunite, that sharp look in his eyes saying more than even Flint must know. They still clash over how things should be done. As only one of them has a ship, though, John isn't beholden to Flint.

He misses being Flint's quartermaster more than he realized he would. They were good together. The best.

Still are, really. Just different now.

Better- this creature calling itself James comes when beckoned, sometimes, and bumps their shoulders together companionably.

 

**iii.**

Despite the immense wealth at Flint's fingertips, John likes to bring him things.

"What is it this time?" Flint asks with narrowed eyes as John holds out a basket. He takes his and immediately takes a dramatic sniff. "If it's more rotten cheese, you can leave now."

"That was an honest mistake," John reminds him.

"You know what else was honest? The week I spent-"

"All right, all right. Just open it, would you?"

Flint does, and when the top pops up, a little ginger head does, too.

"You said your last one died," John reminds him. "There happened to be a litter ready to leave its mother in the last port town we passed."

For a moment, he expects to get yelled at. Flint's expression is stony, possibly furious. Then he lifts the sleepy kitten out of its bed and, holding it aloft, squints up at it for a long moment before nodding to himself and muttering, "It will do."

 

Atlas makes himself right at home on Flint's farm. Too at home.

"I'm sorry," John grits, "but how is it I'm not allowed in the bed, yet the cat is?"

Flint shrugs. "The cat isn't a little shit."

"You're impossible, you know that? If you don't want me to be here, I'll leave is that what you want?"

His words hit Flint's impassive shoulders and bounce harmlessly to the floor. "You know what I want," comes the tired reply.

John does know. There's only one part of Flint's retirement that's missing, but John isn't ready to give up the sea. Not even for Flint. And Flint...

Well, he's used to wanting without getting, isn't he? He doesn't have to ask because he already knows the answer.

John sleeps on a blanket on the floor that night. It's cold and uncomfortable, and he finds himself aching to touch Flint, to make sure he even made it to the island, isn't just making this us as he drowns in some forgotten sea in the back end of nowhere.

In the morning, he leaves without a word.

 

**iv.**

They take a ship, have half the plunder moved to theirs, when a man not yet surrendered or dead pops up out of nowhere, levels a pistol at John, and hits him squarely.

 _Missed the major blood vessel_ is the good news. _Gonna need months to heal, if it will at all_.

John gives the crew two months' leave- they were about due anyway- and steals away, hopping between ships to get to Flint.

It nearly kills him, which is a blessing, because otherwise Flint would have tried.

"You're an idiot."

"Your concern is touching."

"Stop playing with my damn tools. I'll give you opium if you don't behave."

John sighs and returns the scissors to the box.

"They're called shears," Flint corrects tonelessly.

"For sheep?"

"I bought a few."

"You're turning into a Noah out here," John says, grinning at the way Flint rolls his eyes. "You've let your hair grow out- why not do the same for the beard?" When that fails to get a reaction, John sobers. "You're angry with me."

Flint tips his head as if considering the question.

In other words: yes.

"I told you I wasn't ready-"

"And I never ask." Scrubbing a hand over his face, Flint sighs. "I never asked."

That, John thinks tiredly, is half the problem.

The other half, of course, is John, but that's another issue.

 

**v.**

Billy catches up to him.

Billy leaves him marooned on an island to die.

There's something poetic about it: Billy is the one who brought Long John Silver into being, and Billy is the one who kills him.

What isn't so poetic is John's crew turning up the next day and rescuing him. They're all excited and full of laughter at Billy Bones' mistake- as if a shipload of pirates can be expected to keep a secret!

As if any man can be.

Flint finds it significantly less amusing. They fight, they find common ground, they fight again. All the while they tiptoe around what Flint wants and what John can give.

The solution becomes clear when Flint gets up in the morning to tend to the animals.

John needs to get out now here, for good.

So he does.

 

**vi.**

The thing about leaving Flint, in John's experience, is you don't actually get to do it. Once you tie yourself to someone like Flint, that's it. You'll gravitate toward him in life, and he'll hoard you in death.

Exactly which of the two states John is in when drags himself through a storm to stand, sopping wet, on Flint's doorstep, is anyone's guess.

It's been two years since they last saw each other.

Flint says nothing, merely regards John with those pale, unnerving eyes before stepping aside and letting John in.

Inside, the little house is even cozier than John recalled. Flint certainly seems closer than he has in a long time, since even before John left.

 _He's dressed for bed,_ John realizes stupidly, as if he hasn’t seen this tens of times before. Of course Flint is- he lives on the land now, is subject to its rules like mortal men. And it's the middle of the night.

"You have a lot of nerve to come here," Flint grunts as he takes John's wet jacket and puts it somewhere out of sight. "You left some of your clothes upstairs. I'm sure some still fit."

He takes off up the stairs just like that, leaving John to stand in the middle of the kitchen, dripping on the wood floor, until he returns, clothes in hand. John takes them as nonchalantly as he can, but he can feel the shifting under the surface.

Flint is furious.

When he finishes changing, John finds Flint sitting at the kitchen table. With no better option, John takes the chair opposite him.

_He still keeps two chairs._

He kept John's clothes.

"Flint."

"Out with it."

John blinks, thrown by how quickly the fury in Flint raised its head. Usually he has to work himself up to this point, his temper sinking its teeth in deep-

Ah, but he has been working himself up, hasn't he? Two years is a long time to chew on resentment, but Flint is a man who raised a force against an empire over one man. Over the idea of a home.

"You're angry with me," John says lamely when he finds no alternative, no snappy little thing to make Flint frown and turn the tables. He and Flint are too well-known to each other. This conversation is too long in coming.

God, he feels old.

Flint raises a brow, opinion of that opening obvious.

John isn't the only one who's aged. Flint's face has grown somehow thinner still. His eyes are almost sunken, the look of the other world only made stronger by the looser style he keeps his hair; stray locks hang freely, or tucked behind his ear. His beard has grown out fully and gone a bit wild- he's almost beginning to resemble Teach.

Probably for the best not to share that revelation.

"Well? Why are you here, John?"

John freezes, any thought he may have had dissolved. In all their time together, Flint almost never called John by his Christian name.

Maybe it wasn't fury shaking through Flint.

"I want to come home."

Flint snorts, and John quickly revises- not entirely fury.

"I'm tired, Captain," he admits. If the title surprises Flint, he makes no sign of it. "My crew was actually willing to let me leave- they were ready to have done with me, and I'm ready to be done with them."

Flint accepts this with the gravity of a man well acquainted with a crew's ire. It isn't an easy thing, losing your crew.

At least they didn't kill him.

"So soon?"

"It was two years!"

Flint tilts his head. "Only that? I thought you'd last longer."

Fists clenching, John draws a steadying breath. This is what Flint does. He pushes, looking for what gives; it isn't kindness or cruelty, only curiosity. He wants to get to the truth before it can hurt him so badly, he isn't concerned with the person he's prying that truth from.

Except he does.

When John first set his feet to this path, Flint volunteered to help him walk with the darkness. That wasn't just self-defense.

"You were never going to welcome me with open arms, were you?"

Flint snorts. "Not on your life."

"A pity, that."                       

"I'm not your mother."

"Now that is something I can be glad for." Here, then, is the time for a bit of charm. The right smile, a certain look with his eyes-

"Stop batting your lashes at me like some whore. It's off-putting."           

Captain Flint, most reviled pirate in Nassau: a man who has never lain with a prostitute.

Sighing- it was worth a try; his charms used to work wonders on Flint- John sits back in his seat. He's about to get on with the terrible undertaking when he remembers something curious.

"Where's Atlas?"

"Don't know." If it weren't for the way his hands are grasped white-knuckled around his biceps, that would almost be a convincing show of uninterested. "He ran off not long after you did."

Ah. That explains more than Flint must like; he readjusts himself in his chair for a second time in a minute, shrugs almost aggressively hard.

"I haven't found his body yet, if you're wondering."

John resists the urge to tell Flint not to be so negative. That would only blow up in his face.

"You should take me to bed," he says instead.

Visibly thrown, Flint blinks stupidly for a long moment before he rasps, "Pardon?"

"To sleep," John clarifies with a roll of his eyes. Not that he wouldn't be amenable, but now would be a bad time. For both of them. "It's cold, you don't have a fire going, and I haven't slept anywhere nice in far too long."

"Why the hell would I let you into my bed? After all you've done-"

"I love you."

"Not good enough, but thanks."

"Flint..." He's going to have to say it, isn't he? Damn. "I'm sorry. I was being childish. I never should have-"

"Not good enough."

What? "What?"

Flint leans forward slowly, firmly planting his palms on the table's edge. "I don't give a damn about the past. We've got enough of that."

"So what, then? Is this- You're done with me?"

Face scrunching horribly, Flint's head jerks back. "Where the fuck did you get that idea? I meant the _future_. Good Christ."

Ah. "That's- That good then. Isn't it?"

"I had intended it to be."

"So can we... go do that then?"

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"This time, you stay."

John feels his smile grow far too wide, so wide it hurts, but nothing can dampen it. Not Flint grouchiness about being manhandled. Not Flint threatening to put him back out in the rain if he doesn't start acting normal. Not even Flint sighing and leaning in to press a soft kiss to John's lips.

"Hurry up, you little shit. I'm tired."

Still beaming, John hurries to obey.

 

It isn't the end of their problems. It isn't even the start of the end, but when John wakes up the next morning, he could almost swear he hears a cat meowing outside the door.

It can only be up from here.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how much sense this made since it's wholly un-beta'd and I wrote it just to feel better after taking a test I didn't want to take lmao.
> 
> The title is a line from part 9 of Muriel Rukeyser's ["The Outer Banks"](http://murielrukeyser.emuenglish.org/writing/the-outer-banks/)


End file.
